Strangeness and Charm
by Art Is Dead
Summary: The last of the Time Lords must battle their sentiments and keep level heads in order to pursue their very different goals, but the war on their own ticking drum beats may not be as easy as they had hoped. (Doctor/Master)
1. Prologue

Throughout the course of that dark year where The Master ruled the human race with an iron fist, a number of events happened which glided gracefully under the noses of those closest to him. Even Lucy, his obedient trophy wife, was completely ignorant to the abditive occurrences happening outside of her sphere of influence. Of course, if knowledge of these events was somehow leaked to the public down below the overcasting, nefarious shadow of the superior skyship, each plan of either Time Lord would surely be spoiled, those plans being the destruction and the protection of the human race, and though their separation is retained, the line which differs the two could be blurred through the eye of the history which either had trailing in their wake.

It is true that The Doctor spent the good part of those 365 long, painful days in the constricting confines of a standard wheelchair. He could only cover short distances on his feet, so escape was surely out of the question. Even so, the drop was far, his TARDIS was unattainable and Jack's vortex manipulator was in Martha's hands and completely out of reach, not that he'd be caught dead using such primitive travel willy-nilly. Nevertheless, with a plan in action, he had no choice but to wait those days out, hour by hour, and though the curse of age plagued his face, beneath the surface of sorrow and impatience, his brown eyes recalled the youthful and adventurous glimmer in which he thrived upon.

Time seemed slower than ever, though The Doctor had not quite experienced such a tethering since the Time Lords bound him to the earth's surface so very long ago. It felt unnatural to him, allowing each second to tick in such a linear fashion. His species found sport in manipulating the time vortex, and without that luxury at the tip of his screwdriver, The Doctor was no less forced to sit through each grueling minute. He spent most of his time peering through his favored small window, unwilling to stress his creaky, withered bones. He had made the conclusion that his old friend found sadistic pleasure in witnessing him suffer through the days, that being the only probable assumption for how The Master could stand such slow-passing time. Although this theory disqualifies the fact that he had spent time similarly for countless years while bound to the same body and the ignorance to his true existence, though the thought of it was absolutely outlandish to The Doctor.

The Doctor, of course, blamed himself for these events. It was he who took Martha, his companion, in. And it was he who taught her the way a Time Lord could confine his true essence to a special sort of pocket watch. If he had never offered her a lift she never would have come to the point where she had second guessed that mysterious silver watch with those peculiar alienish circles scrawled in to the metal. In fact, she never would have been on the ship to Utopia in the first place, rather safe at home with her family where she belonged, pursuing the career of a doctor. A real, proper doctor. Therefore, in a roundabout way, he had brought this all upon himself. Of course, he had always brought these things upon himself. Running could only take him so far. His past was bound to return and, regrettably, backfire as it always had. He felt pity for his old friend, who could have died happy, with a successful human life behind him. The Master could have perished in ignorance, free from the curse of the Time Lords. Free from the crushing weight of being the last of two left of his own species. But alas, things were never quite that easy for The Doctor, he supposed. Though he had spent the better part of his adult life avoiding the childhood friend of his, or cleaning up his messes, The Doctor nevertheless had always wished for a better fate of his friend. A moment of relaxation, perhaps, free from the endless drumming. If not himself, why not a person in which he cared deeply for? He had accepted long ago that he could never quite end his reign or perilous running, but he could end it for others.

The truth was that he cared deeply for his fellow Time Lord, and he had a hunch that The Master felt similarly. As childhood friends, regardless of their inability to see eye-to-eye in most situations, they clicked wonderfully in every other way. The last of their kind, brilliant, and entirely mad. Where they were different in one way, they were the same in a thousand others.

That, above all, is the reason The Doctor, though standing his ground confidently in that year, had also learned to forgive his foe and friend.

Not because he was kind, though he was in every way imaginable.

Not because of loneliness, though loneliness was the only constant in his life which he could rely on.

**Because if he couldn't forgive himself, he had to learn to forgive his equal. **


	2. Spectrum

Bleak, vapid light poured in from the hallway and in to the almost closet-sized room, acting as a sort of wake up call to the aged and sleeping man inside. He stirred himself in to reality with creaking bones and blinked absently at the pale yellow streaming across his thinly lined blanket. A quick glance at his wrinkled hands made him realize that no, it was not in fact a horrendous dream. Furthermore, he could feel the smooth function of the skyship's engine as it held the massive craft in the air. A faint ringing assaulted his eardrums with slight annoyance, but it wasn't until a few moments later that he had realized it had a tangible source. With a discouraged sigh, his old legs swung over the edge of the bed. Bare toes brushed the cold surface of the floor and tingled. It was a long time since he had felt so physically old, and he had to admit that he hadn't missed it. Being young and vibrant was a quality he had grown to love about his body, but now that his skin sagged with gravity and his bones ached with withering, he couldn't help but to feel a little selfish.

A raw form of apathy pushed The Doctor past his chest of drawers- where there was likely a clean change of clothes for him- and lazily into the cold, stiff seat of his wheelchair. It had only been a few steps but his legs were shaking and exhausted, relieved to be sitting once more. The ringing persisted and he assumed that it would continue to do so until he had stopped it on his own, or at least emerged from his dwelling. With a haphazard grunt and push, the wheels were moving and his mobility was restored at least partially. His door was open regardless of the memory serving him that it had been shut the night before. One of The Master's cronies had undoubtedly come to check and see if he was still on board during the night, even though it was practically impossible for him to escape.

A corridor of pressing enormity reached far ahead of him. A shuddering, discouraged sigh spilled like a waterfall from his chapped lips. He pushed onward and began rolling over the crisp, shiny tile floor. The two large wheels on either side of his chair rolled with relative ease until finally he had reached a crossing, to which he spun to the left sharply and came upon the bright conference room to which he spent his last young breath only hours before. The incessant ringing appeared much louder now, and he assumed that its source came from within.

A form-fitting black dress clad in dangling pearls and red pumps sat upon the glass table with her back toward the entrance. A sharp sky-blue dress shirt, square cuff links, and black tie sat near to her in a swiveling chair with his eyes trained on her red lips and bouncy curls but his face plain enough to see from The Doctor's position. They interacted with one another as if the deafening alarm hadn't even existed, but the way their voices were raised suggested that they were aware of its presence however chose to pay more attention to one another than it. A few loud moments passed before The Master took notice of his fellow Time Lord's arrival, but the way his interested smile grew in to a malicious grin instantaneously seemed to wring those seconds of their substance and discard them quicker than they had passed. He reached a nimble finger underneath the table and presumably pressed a button, because the cacophonous blaring stopped immediately.

"Good of you to join us, Doctor!" he exclaimed in an unpleasant sing-song tone. Lucy turned her head around to face their guest, the expression on her face blank with sudden boredom. She nodded in uncaring acknowledgement, leaned toward her aberrant husband to whisper something in his ear, and slid off the table in one graceful movement. The Master simply waved a nonchalant hand at her as she departed through the rear door and got to his feet. "You're looking spry I see. Enjoy your sleep?"

The Doctor grumbled something incoherent and adjusted the position of his hands so that they were resting upon the thin material of his pinstriped bedclothes.

"How nice to hear~ Ah, but this won't ever do," a seemingly youthful prime minister purred with a discontented tongue while addressing The Doctor's lack of proper dress, "today is the first day of ruling. Is it so difficult to dress properly?"

The Master didn't need a response. A pained expression on The Doctor's face answered his question well enough, to which he growled bitterly as if it weren't his fault entirely and turned away his angled chin. For a few agonizing moments the only sound between them was the low rumble of the engine. The Master gently shut his eyes and inhaled sharply to hold his breath, looking as if he were simply listening. If there were a clock in the room apart from his heavy and muffled wristwatch, the hands would hold the heavy suspense with trembling weakness. Quick as the silence came it dissipated with his exhale and doll-like grin. "Funny, I've hardly had this regeneration and yet I still have forgotten how difficult simple tasks are with such old bones. Good thing I'm not the ancient one here," a dark brow raised in suggestion. The Doctor parted his dry lips in protest, but was hushed before he could form any words, "No. Return when you're decent. I don't care if you break a hip, grandpa. Perhaps you'll learn some respect."

The tyrannical fortitude of the demand almost made The Doctor choke. He knew his disturbed equal could be cruel better than anyone, perhaps even himself, but his request was near impossible. It was hard enough to roll his chair around and out of the room, but to change himself entirely alone in this state? He already felt winded and he hadn't even made it back to his room yet.

The Master, with arms folded in superfluous pride, cocked a brow at his departing guest and watched with genuine interest, in the same manner that people gaze upon the caged animals of their local zoo. One bold step took him closer and he picked up his pace until he was directly behind his deteriorating friend, to which he delivered a hearty shove at the back of the mobile seat and sent the panicked Doctor barreling down the hallway and out of control, straight in to the wall. Much to The Master's distaste he hadn't the reward of a verbal reaction, and those deep brown eyes were out of his line of sight. Nevertheless, the way those drooping shoulders slumped in defeat was satisfactory enough, and he chuckled ostentatiously a moment or two before turning on his heel and trotting happily away.

It felt like forever before the staling Time Lord emerged once again, and by then The Master was nearly asleep, his lids heavy with impatience and boredom. Absentminded tapping of his foot kept him in tune with reality until his ears perked at the telltale sign of rolling wheels. Hazel irises flicked toward the entrance and found The Doctor dressed in a solid blue suit, a purple necktie tucked in to the folds of his buttoned blazer. His classic Chuck Taylors were on his feet, but it was a shoddy detail that The Master could overlook. "Much better, don't you agree?~" a nonsensical Master cooed while rising to his feet, where he approached the fatigued figure and handled the service bars protruding from the back of the chair. From there the two of them wheeled to the window at the far wall. The Master leaned over the edge of the chair, hands pressing in to the leather of the back, to peer out and downward. Feeling crowded by the looming body above him, The Doctor followed suit, regardless of the figurative and literal pain it took to do so. It was hard to see much from their altitude, but a few swarms of Toclafane whizzed by and achingly reminded The Doctor of the hurtful fate of his precious earth.

"One third. Gone!" The Master boasted in a chipper voice, "Doesn't it feel so _good _to know that such a large portion of such an awful race is just _gone?" _

__"You're a monster."

"Hm~" a laugh escaped curled lips, "it could be yours too, you know. The earth. How would that make you feel, to own your precious planet? To reign as the leader of your favorite people? It wouldn't take but a few words. Imagine that. A few words and it could all be yours. Well, almost all yours. Sort of like joint custody. Wouldn't you like that?"

"That's not the point. I don't want to rule them, Kosch-"

"Stop it," he snarled viciously, lips dripping with venom while he swung round to face his guest eye-to-eye, "use the name I chose. Use it to remind you who's in charge here. You think just because we were friends back in the academy that you can be as formal as you please with me? You're sadly mistaken, Doctor. I chose this name for a reason. Use it."

If stares could burn, the ship would be ablaze in an instant. Burning circles of brown quaked with irritation. Beaked lips pressed to form a thin, maddened line. "Yes, Master."

"Ah, much better, don't you think? It rolls off the tongue marvelously. Say it again."

"What are they, really? The Toclafane?" a trembling voice asked, almost out of breath.

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

**"Master."**


	3. Breath Of Life

WARNING: Sexual abuse, hinted domestic violence, sexual circumstances and events, rape(depending on your definition)

Also, I forgot to mention last chapter that I will be naming each update after a Florence and the Machine song, since the fic itself was inspired by the song Strangeness and Charm. I suggest looking up the songs because 1. They're amazing and 2. They probably have some symbolism to do with their respective chapter! Thanks for reading, guys :3

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"It's reported that they're starting to take refuge in their flats. Six, maybe seven families per household, and that's just in Britain. They're practically sleeping atop one anoth-"

The Doctor wheeled in seemingly inconspicuously, but the moment his wheelchair breached the threshold The Master had silenced his crony with a flick of the wrist. "Leave me," the Time Lord demanded, hard eyes adding substance to his words. The well-dressed concomitant nodded in reply and turned on his heel to leave, reducing the room's population to three. The Master stood, his shined shoes tapping against the smooth floor as he approached Lucy, who delicately sported a wine glass and a black eye. "Why don't you head off to bed, Mrs. Saxon? I've got some business to attend to with my old pal here, and it could run a little late."

Lucy, blissfully ignorant in her state of near hypnosis, quirked her red lips into a smile and agreed silently. Her heels clicked with each flighty step, growing louder as the approached The Doctor, who sat patiently awaiting his fate. Her nose upturned at the dreary sight of him, and she passed through his vapid aura unphased by its oppressiveness. He watched her with concern, his eyes fixed upon the purplish bruise staining her lids. With little energy he hardly had the physical capability to help her, but his pity radiated like blistering fire.

"Doctor."

The tyrannical Time Lord was not awarded the glory of a verbal response. He got a striking look, intended to wound, and though he wouldn't admit it aloud, the crackling hate in those brown hues had cut him.

"Oh, don't be such a prat. Come, I have something to show you," The Master quirked two svelte digits in beckoning, to which The Doctor responded by wheeling toward the other, who was now making his way casually into the hallway.

It was evening, as was obvious by the dim light outside each small window. The moon was high and full, but skiddish and hidden by the blanket of slow-travelling clouds. Besides the whir of the engine, the muffled tap of dress shoes and the noise of wheels gliding over tile, the ship was pin-drop silent. At the end of the corridor stood a door, the polished metal of its knob seemingly untouched. Though the ship itself was fresh, almost brand-new, this particular area seemed specifically neglected by activity. Everything else appeared to have been used, or visited at very least. But, just like stale contradiction, there laid the most ineffably abandoned, far-off place on the entire vessel right in front of them. There was a surreal presence about it, and although exhaustion weighed on The Doctor in a physical sense, he felt impatient and anxious to see what was behind that door.

Alas, he had not to wait much longer, for The Master withdrew a set of keys to jumble the silence and unlocked the mysterious barrier to what lay beyond.

Unfortunately, what lay beyond was not as blissfully surreal as The Doctor had initially expected. The overhead light cast a minimal glow on the space inside, and whatever remaining light poured in from the window to the left, which splayed a bluish and iridescent blanket over the small amount of furniture inside. A table was pushed against the farthest wall, and upon rest a series of what appeared to be torture devices, though by the looks of the bed nearby and shackles chained to the right wall, something suggested an intended eroticism of it all. The Doctor tried to roll himself backward and out of the doorway, but a quick hand was soon to catch and stop him.

"What do you think, hm? I haven't been awarded the pleasure of using any of this quite yet. I was hoping you would change that," suggested a coquettish voice, the sticky sweet weight to the words sending a paranoid chill down The Doctor's spine. He heard a rustling, and craned his neck to discover that The Master was pointing his lazer screwdriver directly at him, a nimble digit poised over the button and a look of malice in his hazel eye. "So, what do you say? Will you help me?"

The Doctor hadn't a chance to respond before his body was thrown into convulsive, sporadic episodes. He could physically detect the returning of his youth with each passing moment, just as he could feel it being drained from him only a day before, but the rapid movement of his thrashing limbs seemed to thieve the joy of mobility straight out of his muscles. It was only seconds before his body lay still once more, but it felt like 100 years all over again. Shakily, with nearly tangible hesitation, he lifted a few outstretched fingers to graze his cheek. The wrinkles were gone, and his skin felt as taut over his cheekbones as it had before. Looking at his hands, young and capable once more, he felt a rush of ecstasy, like the liberation of long-awaited freedom. Without a second thought as to the consequences, The Doctor moved to stand as casually as if he were alone in the room, making his desire to depart frankly evident.

Controlling hands pushed him down in to his seat quicker than he could comprehend. In a matter of milliseconds he was cuffed by the wrists and roped by the ankles to his wheelchair prison cell. Flaming hazel eyes met curious and shocked brown ones, igniting the sting of ice. "Ah ah ah," The Master taunted, a finger wagging in bemused disapproval, "Haven't you learned not to defy your master?"

"You don't have to do this."

"So now he speaks! What a relief, I was afraid you'd gone mute. How dull is that?"

The Doctor struggled, trying to lift his arms despite their obvious metal restraint. He knew it to be of no use, but he jangled the clanging silver cuffs regardless, his distress growing visibly with each passing moment. "Let me go," he pleaded, his voice calm and persuasive despite the circumstances, "You don't need to do this."

"Ah, but that's where you falter, dearest Doctor. You see, I _want _to do this," a slithering finger, which had once been cradling and angled chin in means of observation, now toggled with the zipper at the crotch of The Doctor's dress pants, "And I'm quite content with getting what I want."

Despite his obvious objection to the advance, The Doctor could detect a telltale stirring in his loins. He directed an animal-like growl at the nimble digit snaking its way into his trousers, hoping despite the preposterous thought of it all that the guttural sound would ward off his assailant. Of course, to his expectations, it had not, and the button holding the last fragile string of his privacy was pulled out of its respective socket. "Master," The Doctor hissed, his body in turmoil and tangling with his mind, "Stop," a throat of sandpaper didn't prove to be as convincing as he intended. He swallowed dryly, wincing, and tried again, "just let me be. We can forget this. I won't tell Lucy, okay? It's our secret."

Out of all the reactions The Doctor was expecting, thunderous laughter was the lowest on the list, and yet within moments the air filled with whimsical cackles. "You think I care what Lucy thinks? Oh Doctor, you're a clever one, but sometimes you can be so utterly daft. I've got her wrapped around my finger tighter than a boa. She's practically a puppet. I'm not worried about her at all," The Master crooned, his nefarious eyes devouring the petrified expression on his fellow Time Lord's face. A mock smile pulled onto his lips, creating a look of pseudo-sympathy to which he directed at the cuffed Doctor beneath him. His hands, now momentarily free, moved to undo his own pants, which he did with agonizing lag. Reveling in the visual response he had influenced, he pulled off his trousers rather absent-mindedly, tossing them aside with haste. "Oh, but I do apologize. It's quite compromising to be in a situation like this, isn't it? Here, allow me to assist," he purred, the corners of his lips curling into malicious coils. The Doctor twisted at the waist, trying with all his confined might to tear his body away from inevitability. The Master had crawled unto his lap regardless of his protests and straddled his hips with relative ease. The suffocating lack of room on the chair had made The Doctor claustrophobic, and although there was the weight of another body now pressed unto his thighs, he struggled on. Ignoring the incessant thrashing, The Master had reached inside his victim's pants and withdrew a relatively flaccid organ.

A gasp escaped The Doctor's throat when delicate fingers traced the underside of his exposed penis. He opened his mouth in yet another verbal protest, but before a single syllable exited his lips he was choking on the silky fabric of his tie. The gag caught him off guard, and he coughed in surprise while the ends were being tied behind his head. Inhaling sharply through his nose, he tried to maneuver the ribbon to a position where he could speak, but it was no use. The material dug in to the corners of his mouth, and his tongue went dry as he tried to swallow. Yet again a hand grasped him, but due to being smothered by his own necktie, the only response he could use was of a physical one: his head jerked to the side, a muffled "stop" coming from behind the barrier of cloth. Disregarding the complaint, The Master began to, albeit gently despite his former roughness, tend to the protrusion in his palm. Vengeful eyes met misted hues in a deafeningly silent battle.

Perhaps it was in that moment, upon gazing at the determination and- though it was almost unbelievable- admiration in those hazel orbs, that The Doctor had more or less accepted his fate. Perhaps, he thought, it was time to stop fighting. Perhaps this was one of those rare times where he could pull through simply by sitting aside and letting what was to happen just... happen. Regardless of his initial reluctance, the idea of simply allowing events to take place was next to relieving for him. He still felt a twinge of unwillingness, but with little to no options left on how to get out, for the first time in a long time he simply settled with his lack of control.

That, of course, was when he started enjoying it. Little by little his resolve melted away until all that remained was a raw sense of bliss. The terror in his eyes had faded until it was left as only a sliver; one could never be too careful around such an unpredictable character after all, and his old habit of being precise and diligent was obviously one to die hard.

The Master had obviously caught on to the other Time Lord's submission and disapproved, because he was quick to pinch the very tip of the now half-erect protuberance. The Doctor squirmed, a stifled yelp sinking through the saliva-coated tie in his mouth. He was awarded a sly smirk in return, to which he winced at the dagger behind it appropriately. The Master, clearly aroused as was obvious by the shape outlined in his boxers, tore at his bottom lip with ravenous teeth and pulled out his own pulsating organ. With a look of unadulterated hunger in his eye, he pressed their throbbing and moistened shafts together, wrapped a hand around their conjoined lengths, and began a slow rocking of his hips.

The friction dug a fussed exclamation out of The Doctor's quivering diaphragm. The vibration of his throat against the gag cased the material to ravish the corners of his mouth even further, turning the skin raw and irritated in a matter of seconds. In discordance with his opposition, the head of his currently fully-erect protrusion swelled, emitting a thick line of pre-cum. This brought out a muted whimper, to which The Master licked his dried lips and squeezed their twitching erections generously.

"It's such a shame," he hummed, his voice hot with desire, "I was hoping to use some of this equipment. You shouldn't have tried to run," a breathy tone seemed to purr more than it did speak, and the warm air of it touching The Doctor's ear in a delicate fashion made him twitch involuntarily. He stifled a moan, allowing for a sharp exhale through his nose. "Mm. What should I do with you?" The Master crooned, his hips now crashing violently against the other's, the threat of tipping over becoming more and more prominent with each thrust, "Ah! I've got it!" with relative quickness he stood, vacating The Doctor's lap, "you look so ravishing in a suit, let's see if you can spoil it without any help~"

Panic struck The Doctor like a poison arrow. Belittling eyes condescended him with nothing but a glare, and that paired with the uncomfortable sensation of being completely aroused and entirely helpless as to how to treat it made him squirm. His brows pulled together in disbelief and frustration, and his hips, desperate for some sort of relief, thrashed mindlessly. Muted words poured through his silk gag regardless of the physical consequences, but The Master chose to ignore them and simply tended to his own arousal, treating it with insistent gentleness.

The Doctor thrust his hips in thoughtless hope to derive some sort of pleasure from the air around him. The lack of the friction which he desired infuriated him, and his toes curled with disgruntlement. Lean fingers coiled and spread outward in a helpless attempt to break free and nurse his own throbbing erection, but his efforts proved to no avail. In his distraction he had hardly noticed that The Master had approached his side and was now pumping his own length dangerously close to The Doctor's chest. Within moments a sticky white essence soiled the blazer which clung to his body with cold sweat. Even in the heat of his orgasm The Master had remained mysteriously quiet, the only affect seeming to be his shortened breath and glazed eyes. Milking himself over his fellow Time Lord's heaving chest seemed effortless in retrospect, and he seemed to recover surprisingly quickly, a trait that was relatively new even to himself. This regeneration seemed to retain a large amount of stamina.

He tucked himself back into his undergarment and pulled on his dress pants. The Doctor's eyes shot daggers at him in a panic. The terror in his eyes was almost tangible, and to that The Master merely smirked. "Well, I suppose I'll check back up on you later then. I'll see you soon, I trust."

An indistinct scream ripped through the air. He nodded, as if in knowing and empathy, and approached the door. One hand went up in a goodbye salute, the other twisting the metal knob to freedom.

**"Until then, Doctor."**


	4. Only If For A Night

When dawn hit and the sun wasn't such a stranger anymore he sat as still as ever, half-asleep and aching. The flaccid cock in his lap throbbed, not in pleasure but with a weary sense of existence, as if alive, barely kicking and obnoxiously persistent. His hearts seemed almost dormant, as if in death, or caught in one sure moment of time with no intention of moving forward. In fact, if it weren't for the four distinctive beats he felt surging through his shaft, he would have assumed he was in either limbo or death long ago. The clothes on his body felt uncomfortable, sticky with sweat and disarranged entirely. More than anything he wished for a shower, and preferably a cold one to help him regain his wits.

His foot slipped in to a tingly sleep, and he scowled lazily at it, jealous of how easy slumber had come to the inert appendage. He thrashed in his seat with the intention to wake it, but when the pins and needles came and he tried just a little harder, the chair seemed to be fed up with his incessant clambering around and began to tilt in protest. Brown eyes widened, large and (usually) capable hands struggled in their inability, however it all appeared to be for naught; before long his cheek connected with the floor, and a loud 'oomph!' escaped his beaked lips. Defeated, his eyes shut, and a sigh came forward. The heavy weight of the chair on his back was maddening, especially considering he was now guaranteed immobility.

"Well, this is a bit of a pickle," he murmured to no one in particular.

"I suppose it is, Doctor."

"Master! Thank the stars you're here. Could I, uh... well, have a bit of help?"

"You want help?" an amused face came into plain view of The Doctor's gaze, close and invading, "You, of all people? Oh, this is gold. I almost want to leave you here, make you beg - Oh! That's a fantastic idea. How about you beg for me, can you do that?"

"Master please," The Doctor protested, "don't do this."

"That's not going to cut it, Doctor. You can do better than that."

"Please!"

The Master leaned back, his weight resting on the balls of his feet and his knees on either side of his body, with one hand draped lazily atop each. A disentranced sigh heaved from his chest, all the while snapping the string which held his head upright. "Doctor," hazel eyes drifted until capturing brown where they met like ribbons of blood in water or cigarette smoke in sunlight, "If you want anything from me, you're going to have to put forth a little more effort than that."

"I'm not here to entertain your blasted fantasies, Master. I just want help up."

"Oh but you are."

"How about you just uncuff me, eh? What do you say to that? I can get up myself. Just uncuff me. Could you do that?"

"See, here's how it is. You're here because I want you to be. I could have killed you long ago, but no. I kept you. And don't even think about regenerating. I am a Time Lord as well, after all. And a clever one at that."

The Doctor shifted, visibly uncomfortable not just by the weight of the chair on his body but also from the hungry and primal look in those piercing eyes that, above all else, seemed to burn straight through him like acid.

"I kept you because you're fun. Because to me you're nothing more than a puppet. Ah, or like a court's jester. What do you say to that? You're my clown, and me? I'm your Master," the Time Lord growled, the ends of his words curling like the corner of his lip.

"Master, please. I can't stand on my own here."

"Silly old Doctor. Spends his lifetime helping everyone because he's 'good'," he mocked, head bobbing to and fro in emphasis, "and he's 'nice', and he's everything that the word 'doctor' means. But now? Now he's the one asking for help. The Doctor," standing, his arms spread out to either side of his body in triumph, "savior of the universe! Reduced to a pile of rubbish on the floor at my feet. Oh," the sharply dressed Gallifreyan licked his lips in contained amusement, "if only you could see yourself now. That pride of yours would be gone. You'd be licking the dirt off of my shoes."

"No. You're wrong."

"Am I?" he dropped to his knees quick as a flash, skidding toward the debilitated other, his fist seizing the wrinkled fabric of his unkempt dress shirt in a tight and messy knot, "how so do you say? Humor me."

"I'd never be able to shake off this pride," the brunet smirked, "It's far too heavy for me."

One tongue click and a few key turns later and The Doctor lost his cuffs and began pulling off the ropes which had previously been digging into the chafed skin of his ankles. He crawled out from underneath his chair, tried to discreetly zip up his trousers and fasten the button, and hopped to his feet in no time. His knees buckled, pulling toward one another like magnets. The ache in his abdomen felt as though it throbbed. He keeled forward, a wince in his arched brows and his tongue in his teeth. The Master only grinned; iniquity sparked in his eyes like fireworks.

"Oh," a voice laden with mock pity purred, its respective head tilting for emphasis, "poor Doctor. Can barely stand! It's such a shame."

"I'm fine," the other Time Lord replied, only just being able to force his body upward. A tiredness rested in his eyes, forcing them to swell slightly. He puffed his chest, as if in superiority, only to arch forward once again in pain. His lanky arms held his innards in place; he clutched his lower abdomen tightly and protectively.

"Well color me corrected, I suppose you're absolutely right."

Gritting his teeth, The Doctor let out a garbled, "at least my foot's not asleep anymore," and leaned on his upright wheelchair for support. What was supposed to be a comforting hand, or at least he assumed so, landed on his shoulder. His gaze flew to his old friend, a bit of a snarl on his lips but also a trickle of hope in his exhausted eyes.

That kind hand fell away abruptly, as if burned.

**"Why don't you get yourself cleaned up?"**


	5. Seven Devils

/ Sorry I'm so overdue for an update, I've had a busy few weeks with school starting and all. Have this. \\

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"Greetings, people of earth!" a booming voice resonated with fluctuating and in-control intonation, "it is I, your Lord and Master. I would like for you all to know that from this point forth, in following to yesterday's shutdown of all communication devices, all forms of digital media will have their signals terminated after this message. That means there will be no use of televisions or radio, among other things. This will be a permanent change and will only be compromised during a need to broadcast specific announcements via myself, or an authorized other. If you notice or receive any unapproved uses or broadcasts, it is asked that you report it immediately. Failure to do so can be punishable by death. All illegal broadcasters will be found and sentenced to death, no questions asked. You are now permitted to switch off your televisions. Or if you'd choose not too, they'll cut out in 3...2..." a devilish smirk tugged at his lips, "1."

The light on the camera shut off, and the crew waiting nearby began opening suitcases and bags to put the equipment in. The Doctor, aged back aching and creaky joints seized up into near immobility, lowered the boom microphone he was forced into holding, and handed it off to a more qualified professional to be packed away. His legs, stiff and tired, shuffled toward his wheelchair on the other side of the room. A lanky body quickly blocked his path and a forceful hand fanned onto his chest. His eyes, still young despite his wrinkled skin, found glaringly amused orbs devouring his uncomfortable aura.

"Doctor," cooed a false sense of euphoria, "Care to walk with me? I'd like to have a little chat."

"Can I take my chair?" the broken Time Lord requested, his face expressionless, his voice raspy, and his eyes volatile.

The Master stepped aside, hands leaving an aged body. His lips smiled but his eyes held steady and his nose curled in pure displeasure, but he nodded, allowing the limping Gallifreyan to sit. Soon enough his side met with the senescent non-earthling, and without word or indication he began to walk toward the elevator. By that time the camera crew had cleared out, and the conference room was bare of human life. A few coffee cups and water bottles littered the table, but The Master was confident that by the time he had returned it would all be cleared away. A cheerful ding indicated that the elevator doors were soon to be open, and sure enough the shiny metal threshold receded, making room for entrance.

Koschei, his fraudulent charm wafting thick like waves of crashing fire, stepped aside with a shimmy and a grin, allowing the burden on wheels to roll past him. He slithered inside afterwards, extending a single finger to press the button for down, and watched apathetically as the doors slid closed again. Instead of quiet, idle music playing over the speakers, a moderately loud "I'm Going Slightly Mad" by Queen filled the stale air. Before long and halfway through the first verse, the doors opened once more to present ebbing darkness, lamented red light and chilling dampness. The elevator closed behind them, and they began their journey down the hall relatively noiselessly, as if self-inserted peace into a storm of busy people and passive chatter. It wasn't until further down, when the noise was behind them, and the only prominent sound being what came off as a distant holler, that The Master had finally decided to speak.

"I own your beloved planet, and all the measly little humans on its wretched surface. To have that power comes with a sort of..." he trailed off, gathering the words from the air with a few swipes of his hand, "reputation, correct? They may kneel with ease but in their minds they need to know who I am, and to know of the power I wield. I have an image to protect. You understand."

The Doctor hadn't even the interest to nod, let alone respond verbally. He had, however, swallowed well enough to clear his dry throat, though it had not assisted with his shortened breath much at all. The Master noticed and took the reins of his wheelchair, pushing it at a leisurely pace down the corridor.

"Because of this colossal responsibility, I have a favor to ask of you."

"What?"

"No, see it's not that simple," he insisted, his voice dropping an octave, "I haven't even asked of you anything but you seem entirely uninterested. I need your sincerity, are we clear?"

"...Yes."

"Good," sonorousness purred, "now, you're going to have to promise to keep your trap shut about our little... moments together. Because I have a feeling that last night wasn't the end of it," he grinned, craning his neck to show off his pearly teeth to the old man below him.

"...And if I don't?" The Doctor inquired, and despite his lack of mobility as well as energy, the question still came across as somewhat threatening. The Master only laughed, his hand now tight around the knob of a steel door.

The hollering was louder now and almost physical. For brief moments it would quiet down, only to erupt once more in a blood-curdling wail. The Doctor, panic-stricken and desperate, had tried to convince himself that he hadn't recognized the yelling at all, but upon gazing at an unforgiving smirk he knew all too well, his suspicions were confirmed without even a question asked. Nevertheless, The Master was fond of deriving all sorts of reactions from people in all sorts of ways, so his Time Lord opposite was hardly surprised when his grin had split and with eerie calm announced, "then I'll have you running the experiments from now on," and threw open the door, revealing a chained, tortured, and bloodstained face, "how does that sound?"

A head of dark, damp hair rose from its groggy position between a pair of broad, perspiring shoulders. Smoldering pity met with something of an opposition, something that never mixes quite as well with pity as it does with others. Something that shouldn't rest in agonized eyes. Something that, with the dim light and the grudgingly morbid surroundings, shines brighter than any tasing rod ever could; hope.

"Doctor."

**"Jack."**


End file.
